


Grudges

by coplins



Series: Grudges [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (not graphic), Animal Death, Bitterness, Dark, Humor, I'm Sorry, Lawyer Lucifer (Supernatural), Lucifer (Supernatural) is Called Nick, M/M, Mentions of F/M sex, Mild Gore, Out of Character, Past Underage, Psychological Horror, Rape, Role Reversal, Sam Winchester and Mental Health Issues, Sibling Incest, Stalking, Unhealthy happy relationships, What Have I Done, Wincest and Michifer side pairings, deeply disturbed Sam, see notes before reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 14:49:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13366998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coplins/pseuds/coplins
Summary: Lucifer Nicholas Shurley, once working side by side with his dad, the legendary Chuck Shurley, and his big brother Michael, equally renowned, got himself cast from grace more than a decade ago. These days he's 'Nick Nobody' in need of a break. He hates his life and the people around him. He dilutes his bitterness with alcohol when it gets too much and copes with humour because if he doesn't laugh at his misery he'd cry. Rivers. Daily.It all changes by a chance meeting at a bar. Sam Winchester is a gorgeous bombshell that just happens to go off in Nick's life and suddenly Nick has bigger problems to cope with than a fizzling career and a pining heart full of bitterness. But somehow, being at ground zero of the nuclear blast that is Sam, isn't even half as bad as Nick's trying hard to pretend it is...





	Grudges

**Author's Note:**

> **STRONG WARNING: (spoilers)**  
>  The rape depicted in this story hits too close to reality. It's not violent, and not done with malicious intent, but it's between the main characters and _will_ make you feel ill at ease. It should. It's not written to be sexy. It's written to showcase exactly how mentally ill Sam is for never seeing the wrong in his actions. If you don't think you can take that, don't read. But if you cringe your way through that part you'll be rewarded with a very unhealthy love story with two individuals who are happy with each other, when they really shouldn't have been. Hopefully, it'll make you smile and laugh while at the same time having a faint feeling of horror in your stomach. Because, hint, Luci's not really all that sane either. ;)
> 
>  **Additional note: (no spoilers)**  
>  This story was supposed to be a comedy (Hah!) but got dark very fast. It's inspired by **[This Post](https://spnyoucantkeepmedown.tumblr.com/post/169549896587/schizonephilim-princemetalthunder)** on Tumblr and all the courtroom quotes are taken from the book 'Disorder in the Courts'. I think perhaps the darkness came as a subconscious reaction to all the happy-go-luckiness in Packrunners. If the pendulum swings too far in one direction, it has to come back, right? ;)

* * *

The court is in session and the first witness of the day has put his hand on the bible. Nick’s got all his papers in order and is waiting for his turn to question the witness. The registrar begins to swear him in. “Please repeat after me: ‘I swear by Almighty God…’" 

"I swear by Almighty God," the witness repeats. 

"'That the evidence that I give..." 

“That's right,” the man says with a content nod. 

“Repeat it.” 

"Repeat it,” the witness repeats. Nick gets a bad feeling in his gut. He wonders if the guy’s a troll or just plain stupid. 

“No! Repeat what I said,” the registrar tells the witness. 

“What you said when?” 

"That the evidence that I give..." 

"That the evidence that I give." 

"Shall be the truth and..." 

“It will, and nothing but the truth!” The man declares proudly. 

“Please, just repeat after me: ‘Shall be the truth and’..." 

“I'm not a scholar, you know,” the man tells the registrar. 

“We can appreciate that. Just repeat after me: ‘Shall be the truth and’..." 

"Shall be the truth and." 

“Say: ‘Nothing’...". 

“Okay.” The man being sworn in on the stand falls quiet, pause dragging on until the registrar realises why. 

“No! Don't say nothing. Say: ‘Nothing but the truth’..." 

“Yes.” 

“Can't you say: ‘Nothing but the truth’...?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well? Do so.” 

“You're confusing me,” the guy answers, starting to look distressed around the eyes. 

“Just say: ‘Nothing but the truth’…” the court registrar coaxes. 

“Okay. I understand,” the witness answers, relaxing again. 

“Then say it.” 

“What?” 

"Nothing but the truth..." 

“But I do! That's just it,” the witness assures earnestly. 

The court registrar has the patience of a saint, but even he’s starting to look a bit frustrated by now. “You must say: ‘Nothing but the truth’..." 

“I WILL say nothing but the truth!” 

“Please,” the court registrar begs, starting to look pained, “just repeat these four words: ‘Nothing’, ‘But’, ‘The’, ‘Truth’.” 

“What? You mean, like, now?” 

“Yes! Now. Please. Just say those four words.” 

"Nothing. But. The. Truth." 

“Thank you,” the registrar says and takes the bible away. 

“I'm just not a scholar,” the witness repeats. 

Nick withholds a groan. It’s not even 9 AM and he’s already questioning all his life’s choices. Again. 

* * *

Nick addresses the woman who has been accused of causing the accident. “What gear were you in at the moment of the impact?” 

The woman on the stand clutches her manicured hands in her lap, looking at him with the intensity of someone getting a verbal test they’re anxious to pass. “Gucci sweats and Reeboks,” she answers earnestly. 

Nick withholds the urge to facepalm. It’s 1 PM and he’s questioning all his life’s choices. Again. 

* * *

"On the morning of July 25th, did you walk from the farmhouse down the footpath to the cowshed?” Nick asks the man on the stand. 

"I did.” 

"And as a result, you passed within a few yards of the duck pond?” 

"I did.” 

"And did you observe anything?” 

"I did,” the man answers, then keeps silent. 

"Well, could you tell the Court what you saw?” Nick bids him. 

"I saw George.” 

"You saw George Bradshaw, the defendant in this case?” Nick probes. 

"Yes.” 

"Can you tell the Court what George Bradshaw was doing?” 

"Yes,” the man answers, but remains silent after that. Nick withholds an urge to slap the guy. 

"Well, would you kindly do so?” Nick bids him patiently. 

The man shifts uncomfortably. "He had his thing stuck into one of the ducks.” 

"His ‘thing’?” 

"You know... His thing. His di... I mean, his penis,” the witness answers, cheeks heating up, looking vastly uncomfortable. 

"You passed close by the duck pond, the light was good, you were sober, you have good eyesight, and you saw this clearly?” 

"Yes.” 

"Did you say anything to him?” 

"Of course I did!” 

"What did you say to him?” Nick asks. 

"’Morning, George.’” 

Nick withholds the urge to scream. It’s 4 PM and he’s questioning all his life’s choices. Again. 

* * *

Sam stares at the persecutor tiredly. He’s fed up with always being the scapegoat as soon as the cops can’t find the real perp. He’s so fed up with nobody listening or caring what he has to say. He’s so fed up with the fucking lawyers assigned to him that always push him to go for admitting guilt because it’ll get him out of custody faster and they wouldn’t have to waste their precious time actually _defending_ him. He’s tired of getting sentenced for stuff he didn’t do and tired of being believed to be guilty because he has a rap sheet and has been institutionalized for mental problems in his youth. He blames dad. He blames everybody. He’s got grudges. 

“All your responses must be oral, Okay? What school did you go to?” the prosecutor asks him. 

“Oral,” Sam answers. 

He’s not giving them an inch. This is going to be a long day. They want to keep ruining his life? Fine. He’ll make them regret the day they set foot in law school. And to think he once had believed in the system. Pfft. Fuck them. Fuck them _all_. 

* * *

Nick’s hunched over his third or fifth whiskey by the bar. But who’s counting anyway? He’s 40 years old and his life is shit. No matter how many whiskeys he has it will be one too little. 

A 30-ish something man dressed in too much plaid slides onto the barstool beside him. He’s tall and gorgeous. As tall and broad-shouldered as he is, even just one plaid shirt needs enough fabric to make it too much plaid. Nick side-eyes him resentfully, wondering what it’d take to make this guy lower his bar enough to fuck a wreck like Nick into the mattress. The guy turns his head to eye Nick with suspicious, catty eyes, licking petulant pink lips that make Nick want to whine. What wouldn’t he give to get to be on his knees, choking on this guy’s dick, having him look down _at_ him with those catty eyes, instead of _on_ him, like now? Nick gives him a disinterested nod in greeting, getting one back. 

* * *

Sam misses Dean. No matter what wrongs Dean ever did, Sam always forgives him. But that he went and became a fucking pig is a hard pill to swallow. That’s why Sam stayed behind when Dean moved to LA to steadily climb up the ranks in the police force. Happily married to the nurse Jess, that Sam will hate-bang behind Dean’s back anytime he goes there to visit. Dean always asks him to stay, bids him to get a job there, offers him help. Sam doesn’t need any fucking help. They both know it’s a bad idea for Sam to stay. It never takes long before their greedy, wet-hot gashes of sin find their way back where they belong, locked together. Dean. Always caught in the limbo between ‘Fuck yeah, Sammy! That’s my good boy!’ and ‘Sam, this needs to stop. It’s wrong!’ So Sam keeps away for the most part. He’s not dumb. He knows it would ruin Dean’s career if the world finds out that they’d learned what guilt-ridden semen tastes like from each other. It’s enough that Sam keeps being sent to jail for crimes he didn’t commit. He doesn’t need Dean to be put away for giving in to Sam’s tenacious passion. But sometimes Sam needs to drink Dean’s sweet lips out of his memory to remember why he should stay away. 

The guy at the bar looks like he’s been through hellfire. His suit is wrinkled, his blond hair a total disarray, his dead stare fixed at the bar and his hands circling his whiskey as if it’s a treasure. His eyes are deep set, dark, shadowed hollows. He’s the embodiment of the bitterness and loathing Sam feels about life. Sam slides up on the bar stool beside him, adding to the room’s collective misery. He turns his head when he feels the guy looking. Those dark hollows - dead, until directed Sam’s way, burn blue ice crystals into Sam’s soul and set his heart aflutter. He’s looking at a fettered beast, muzzled to keep from tearing the world limb from limb. Sam imagines him closing those strong hands around Sam’s throat, fucking into him, forehead dripping sweat into Sam’s oxygen-deprived mouth. Sam licks his lips, can practically taste the salt on them. 

Funny. 

It’s usually the other way. 

Sam often imagines fucking people, pillow over their head suffocating them, hands wrapped around their throats, fingers digging into eye sockets, bones cracking under his fists while he fucks them. He’s never _done it_ , of course. But he fucking hates them all, with their pretty smiles and their judgement. He blames dad. He blames everybody. He could have been normal. They ruined it. 

The guy nods disinterestedly in greeting. He’s perfect. Has a beauty mark just like Sam. Sam wonders how glorious this guy could look if he was released from his shackles. An angel of death, set on Earth to free Sam and burn him from within. 

The guy looks away and Sam berates himself for his overactive imagination. That’s what the first shrink had written in her statement. ‘ _Sam’s an intelligent young child with an overactive imagination and possibly an antisocial personality disorder…_ ’ Fuck her. If they’d _believed_ him when he was telling the truth, then they wouldn’t have ended up piling all those diagnoses on him over the years. But that fucking shrink had started it all. If dad hadn’t taken him to see her, everything would have been fine. Yes, sure. It’s true he’d let the hamster out of its cage. But he hadn’t tipped the bookcase over it _on purpose_! He was a rambunctious boy of five. The bookcase had fallen because he’d tripped into it. And so what if he’d been poking in the smush that had been left of the hamster without crying? He was in shock, okay? It was his first real encounter with death. Who wouldn’t have been numbed and fascinated by it? If they had believed him when he told the truth instead of altering reality to fit _their_ narrative, then they wouldn’t have had to write keywords like ‘overactive imagination’ to start with. 

The man beside him downs his whiskey and raises his finger for a refill. The bartender refills the glass just after he gives Sam the beer he ordered. Sam takes a sip and glances at the man beside him. His eyes are now fixed on the TV on the wall. Those eyes. Glowing with the sullen resentment of somebody whose life is over but who refuses to accept it, staying alive just to annoy people. Sam imagines one of those strong-looking arms reaching out to unzip Sam’s jeans and pull his dick out right here by the bar. He can practically feel nimble fingers wrap around him and start jerking him off without the guy even looking away from the TV. Humiliating Sam by making him come undone in front of all the people in the room and not giving a shit. 

Sam’s jeans grow tight as the fantasy becomes vivid, fleshing out reality like a vibrant dye on a page in an X-rated colouring book. Sam’s tongue plays with the tip of his beer bottle as he stares while the man pleasures him without a care for either Sam or spectators. 

Then the man turns his head to look at Sam. Sam almost says ‘Thank you, Sir,’ but the fantasy pops, leaving Sam with an embarrassed blush and a boner, scowling at the man for making him envision these things. The man’s gaze is averted back to the TV. 

Fuck him. And fuck the shrinks and their keywords like ‘unstable’, ‘delusional’, ‘narcissistic’ and fucking ‘damaged’. They are the delusional ones. Yes, he’d been pissed off at the cat for taking a dump in his shoe. Who wouldn’t be? But running it over with the car was an accident. How was he supposed to know it was hiding underneath? And yes, he was reading a book about an arsonist, keeping matches beside his bed. And yes he was mad as hell at mom for grounding him. But he had _nothing_ to do with the fire that killed her! He loved her! Do they really think he’d be crying for weeks after, if he’d have killed her? It’s insane! They’re _insane_! Locking him up in a psych ward for two years for something he hadn’t done sure as hell didn’t do him any mental favours. Thank god for Dean’s visits. Dad visited too. ‘I love you, son. I only want what’s best for you. I forgive you for Mary. Please, just get better.’ Fuck the everloving shit out of dad. Sam didn’t kill mom. There was nothing to forgive. If Sam would have lit the house on fire he wouldn’t do it with anyone of his family _inside_. Besides, she wasn’t supposed to be home when the fire started. Yes, the fire started in his bedroom and he was the one who discovered it. But she wasn’t supposed to be at home and did they ever think that maybe _she_ started the fire? Fuck them. 

And yet he still had a vague belief in the system when he was let out. But that all went to hell when he started having the dreams and visions. You’d think people would be grateful when you tell them about horrible things before they happen, but no. Instead, they put the blame on you. You have to be the one who did it, how would you otherwise know so much about what happened? That’s when he started getting hauled into custody as soon as something minor came up. That’s when his stint locked in a psych ward started being used against him, all the crap the shrinks ever had written about him taken as proof of his guilt. The first public defender that tricked him into signing a false confession in exchange for parole and a small fine, doomed him. How could he still have been that naive? Once you’re on the rolls they never let you forget. Fuck them. Fuck all of them. 

Maybe not Mr. blond guy next to him. He’s on his, what? Third? Fourth whiskey since Sam got here and he’s drinking himself more attractive for every one he downs. The mask slips off, shaving away sullen defeat, revealing ice and fire, glaring hatefully at the TV screen. Nostrils flared and lips pressed into a thin line. They have a bond, he and Sam. A special connection. Sam can feel it. He’s torn between wanting to punch the guy and to sit at his feet, begging ‘Notice me, Senpai!’ They haven’t properly met yet and Sam might love him a little bit already. 

Fuck him. This is just Sam imagining things again. 

“That should have been me,” the guy mutters at the TV. 

Sam looks at the TV. One of those hotshot prosecutors that is so successful even Sam knows his name despite him working in another state. Michael Shurley, son of Chuck Shurley, both famed for putting famous serial killers behind bars. “Fucking asshole,” Sam remarks at the gorgeous, charming man on TV, giving an interview after putting ‘the Leviathan’ behind bars. 

“Mmmh,” the blond man agrees. “But he was _my_ asshole,” he slurs. “And by _God_ , he looked so pretty, squirming and whimpering underneath me, laid out naked on our father’s desk at work.” His lips quirk upward and he gets a faraway look under heavy eyelids. 

“‘ _Our_ ’ father?” Sam asks, heart taking an excited leap. The guy is drunk. Very drunk. He might not have meant it. 

“Mmh. I admit to nothing.” The guy smirks. “But it was a sturdy desk.” 

Sam laughs a delighted little laugh. He was wrong. This meeting is fated. They share a connection. 

The guy downs his drink and flags the bartender for yet another refill. Too many too fast, blessing Sam with a loose tongue wanting to talk. “Dad caught us at it. Called me a monster. Fired me on the spot, threw me out. Like I was the only guilty party in this. Like Mikey hadn’t been choking me on his dick hours before in the court restroom. And suddenly I’m a fucking pariah. ‘If the great Chuck Shurley doesn’t trust his son Nick, how can we?’” he sneers. “Now I’m stuck defending idiots who cheat on their spouses or shouldn’t be allowed to get behind the wheel in motorized vehicles.” 

A lawyer. Sam _hates_ lawyers. For good reason. But he can make an exception this once. Maybe. “So you want to put serial killers behind bars?” Sam probes and sips his beer. 

The lawyer, Nick, he’d called himself, makes a faintly disgusted, noncommittal sound and shrugs a shoulder. “Once, perhaps. Now I know how many idiots there are in the world…?” He snorts and glares darkly at nothing. “Now I want to set them all free. Unleash the demons upon the world. People don’t deserve better.” He pauses to look down at his glass as it’s being refilled, then downs half as soon as it’s done. “I blame father.” 

Excitement dances like electricity along Sam’s veins. They’re made for each other. Two halves made whole. Nick will understand him. “I feel you. I blame dad too. He ruined my life. I overheard him once. My brother was fresh out of the police academy. Dad pulled him aside and said, ‘Son, I love Sam as much as you do, but he’s not sane. If he ends up being a danger to innocent people, you can’t hesitate. You’re gonna have to take him out’.” 

“That’s rough. You think your brother would do it?” 

Sam shakes his head. “No. We love each other too much. ...We had sturdy desks at our house too,” he confesses with baited breath. 

Nick looks at him appraisingly for a beat, then smirks and raises his glass to clink it together with Sam’s. Elated moths flap their wings in Sam’s belly. This is it. They’re bound together. Destined for each other. Sam can’t wait to get his sticky hands and slick mouth on Nick’s body. To make this union physical, joining them for real. 

Sam drinks, then asks “Why are you doing traffic gigs if that’s not what you want? Aren’t you good enough?” 

Nick glares at him. “I’m better than all of them. But the people I want to defend, those who’d give me a chance to show my skills and build a reputation, they go for lawyers who are already famous.” 

“Maybe if you lower your rates…?” 

Nick snorts. “Sam. It was Sam, right?” Sam nods and Nick goes on. “Sam, sweetheart, give me a high profile case, a serial killer, and I’ll defend him pro bono. I’ll let him loose on the world again like a red right hand. I’ll be the monster father accused me of being, smirking at the cameras in every interview. All I need is the right client. After that, clients and money will come rolling in.” 

Nick called him sweetheart. He feels their bond too! This is it! Sam can feel the pieces of his puzzle slot into place. 

Nick loses interest in talking after that. He sits in contemplative silence, drinking. It’s okay. They have an understanding. He needs some space to mourn after seeing his brother. Sam needed it too, after seeing Dean get that medal for bravery on TV. Sam can wait for him. 

Less than thirty minutes later Nick’s nearly falling asleep and the bartender tells him he has to go home. Sam slides an arm around Nick for support, pays the bartender and hauls Nick towards the door. He’s heavy, barely keeping his eyes open, stumbling, struggling to keep his balance. Lucky Sam’s strong. 

“W’re goin’?” Nick slurs and looks up at Sam without recognition. 

“Home,” Sam answers and hails a cab. 

“Your boy ain’t gonna throw up in my cab, right?” the cab driver asks skeptically, taking one look at Nick’s swaying shape and hanging head. 

“No. It’s alright. And if he does, I’ll pay for it, okay? I need to get him home.” 

“Okay..,” the driver says, less than convinced but agreeing anyway. Sam gives him the address then pulls Nick into the car with him. Nick leans heavily on Sam, head rested against Sam’s chest, one arm around his midriff. Sam inhales the scent of his hair. He can’t believe he’s finally found his soulmate. He hadn’t been looking. He had Dean. But Dean left and Sam stayed behind. Sam hadn’t thought there would be somebody else out there for him. He’d fucked himself through countless dumb sluts―male and female alike―never wanting more from them but to spit in their faces and let them know what pathetic creatures they are. Not that he did, but he wanted to. But now he has Nick, warm and sacred, made for him, resting against him. Sam’s full of exulted joy. 

He puts a hand under Nick’s jaw and tilts his lax head upward to taste his mouth. It tastes of whiskey and regrets, just like Dean’s when Dean can’t keep his distance anymore. ‘Sammy, please. I _need_ you. There ain’t no me if there ain’t no you!’ Sam hates the morning after those smokey whiskey-driven confessions. ‘Fuck, Sam. We can’t keep doing this. It ain’t right!’ As if Sam talked him into it. Sam doesn’t have to. All he needs to do is show up. It doesn’t take many days before Dean comes sneaking into the guestroom while Jess sleeps soundly in the marital bed. 

Nick makes a wounded little noise, tongue moving against Sam’s. _Don’t worry, Nick. I’ll make sure you never have to regret anything ever again._ He’d say it out loud, but that’d mean breaking the kiss and he can’t get enough. Nick’s hand press against his chest, feeling his heartbeat. Sam grabs the hand and presses it against his crotch, helping Nick to massage his dick since Nick’s too drunk to maybe realise he should do it. Nick’s hand squeezes Sam’s dick questingly. Sam pushes on his hand rhythmically to encourage him, moaning into his mouth. The cab driver looks at them through the rearview mirror but says nothing. 

They continue making out all the way, but reach their destination all too soon. Sam pushes Nick to a sitting position while he pays the driver. Nick’s sitting with his head hanging, winded breath and tiredly blinking eyes. “We’re here. Come on. Let’s get you inside,” Sam says and smiles, meeting Nick’s dazed, alcohol glossed eyes. 

“Asknmf?” Nick tries. 

Sam chuckles. His soulmate’s adorable even when drunk. “Yeah, you gotta move. Here. I’ll help you.” 

It’s not easy to bundle Nick out of the cab and drag him towards the door of Sam’s tiny, one bedroom house. Nick leans heavily on Sam, but looks around, bleary eyes half open. Sam has a moment of feeling embarrassed when they get inside. The living room is full of old pizza boxes and empty soda bottles. He doesn’t take guests home very often. “Wh’re are we?” Nick slurs. 

“Home.” 

“I don’t live here,” Nick states confusedly. Sam chuckles, grabs him by the jaw and angles him for a kiss. Nick makes a surprised sound, then says “Oh. Okay…” against Sam’s lips, sloppily reciprocating the kiss. Sam helps to hold him up, pressing Nick’s body against his with an arm around Nick’s back while pushing Nick’s suit jacket off of him. They stumble backwards, Sam guiding them towards the bedroom. At least in there all he has to be ashamed of is dirty clothes on the floor. Nick clings to him for balance, but keeps kissing him through their uncoordinated journey. When they get into the bedroom Sam turns them around and pushes Nick down on the bed. Nick squeezes his eyes shut with a groan at the sudden shift of position, lying flat on his back. “Fuuu…. Spinning,” he whines and covers his face with his hands. 

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you,” Sam assures him and proceeds to remove Nick’s shoes, socks, pants, underwear, and with some struggle (Nick doesn’t want to remove his hands from his face), the tie and shirt. Sam sheds his own clothes and lies down on top of Nick, kissing wherever he can reach. When Nick removes his hands Sam seeks his mouth again and tongues glide slick and sloppy against each other. Sam’s hands greedily explore naked skin, dick rubbing in the juncture between leg and hip. Nick’s got a semi, and Sam abandons the kissing to crawl down to suck him off. Unfortunately, alcohol seemingly won’t let Nick fully enjoy their first union. A semi is all he's capable of right now. Sam abandons the cause to reach for the lube on his bed stand. They don't need condoms. They're soulmates. 

Sure, Nick’s a bit too drunk. It’s not their ideal first time. But Sam forgives him. He’s had a rough day probably and Sam doesn’t mind doing all the work. He flips Nick over. It's not hard when he's this lax. Sam throws a look at the alarm clock while he smears lube on Nick’s hole and starts pressing in carefully not to hurt him too much. It’s 11:06 PM and he’s joining with his soulmate for the first time, two becoming one. 

* * *

Nick wakes up from sunlight burning the outside of his eyelids. 

It's either that or from the dick pounding his ass and his name being chanted like a prayer. 

It's mystery o’clock and Nick isn't questioning his life's choices just yet. He's got other, more pressing questions. Like who? How? Where? The last thing he remembers is falling asleep at the bar like a pathetic loser, lost in memories of Michael smiling unholy kisses into his skin. Long before he left the state because not even disownment could keep them from each other and he didn't want to see Michael fall from grace too. Michael's married now. To a beautiful woman named Sarah. They have a baby. Good for him. 

Nick might have been much more alarmed about his hungover wake-up if the mystery guy wasn't relentlessly pounding his prostate and pleasure is rapidly overtaking both the headache and nausea. Nick opens his eyes to see a plaid shirt lying a foot away on the unfamiliar bed. 

No. 

That can't be right. 

This must be some drunken dream caused by spending half of yesterday evening fantasizing about getting fucked into the mattress by Mr. Gorgeous Plaidwearer. What was his name again? Dan? Zane? Tom? They'd only exchanged a few sentences before Nick descended into pathetic nostalgia. If it is, in fact, Mr. Plaid making him moan like a fucking whore right now, then Nick has no idea how he managed to pull that off. He knows himself. He distinctly (fuzzily) remembers falling asleep at the bar, and he knows without a doubt that when he’s that drunk (pathetic, drooling zombie) his charm is somewhat limited. His chance of chatting anyone up is down to maybe 10%. 7%. Okay, maybe 5%, and only if the person is as drunk as he is, which Mr. Plaid definitely wasn’t, having had a maximum of two beers. Nick knows that because he’d been sending surreptitious glances to those petulant lips wrapping around the bottle and the guy had been a fucking tease, tonguing the tip of the bottle like he was playing with a glans of a cock. Nick nearly told him ‘Buddy, that’s not how you drink’, but that might have made him stop and we don’t want that, no. The second problem in this equation is that Nick, when he’s that drunk (pathetic, drooling zombie) has a success rate at getting a boner of a whopping 0%. So somewhere between Nick’s last fuzzy memory of falling asleep at the bar and now, something has gone horribly wrong or extraordinarily right. Normally when Nick wakes up after getting himself blackout drunk, he asks himself ‘What trouble did I get myself into this time?’ Not so now. Now he thinks something went very right for a change. 

It’s hard to think otherwise, biting the pillow, hips pulled up by a bruising grip and prostate pounded mercilessly while letting out a long continuous moan through the fabric he’s biting. The guy lets go of his hip with one hand to give him a reach-around. It only takes a few strokes before Nick comes like a bucking bronco, then goes lax. Orgasms are good for curing headaches, so that’s something. The guy follows pretty quickly after that. Emptying himself inside of Nick with a gasp and a couple of spasms. Hopefully, he’s at least wearing a condom. 

The guy pulls out and Nick feels hot sperm run down his leg. No such luck. 

“What time is it?” Nick asks when the guy lies down beside him and tucks himself in, kissing Nick’s shoulder lovingly. Nick’s on his belly. All it would take is to turn his head and he’d know if it really is Mr. Plaid or if it’s some gross old trucker. He refrains, hoping to retain the illusion of the gorgeous option a while longer. 

“9 o’clock.” 

“Where are we?” 

“At home.” 

Oh, great. It’s one of those troublesome people who’re determined to be difficult. He has to tackle them daily in the stand. Can’t people make it easy for him for once? Time to be rude. “Who are you?” 

“Your soulmate.” 

Oh. 

Oh shit. 

So it’s _that_ kind of trouble he got himself into yesterday? 

Nick finally turns his head to meet the gaze of those astounding, catty eyes. No longer suspicious, but rather, adoring. Sunlight hits them and highlights the multitude of colours they have. Those pretty, smiling pink lips are framed by dimples. Nick’s heart flutters. No one that beautiful in their right mind should look like that at Nick. “I meant, what’s your name? I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I had a drink or two too many yesterday, and I don’t remember.” 

“It’s Sam. Sam Winchester.” 

Nick nods to himself. Sam does sound vaguely familiar. He pushes himself up, supporting himself on his elbows as he looks around the room. There are plaid shirts strewn across everywhere. “So… Soulmates, huh?” 

“Yes.” 

“Sure… Naturally…” Nick nods again then scrunches up his face in a grimace. “There’s only one problem with that…” 

“What?” Sam looks alarmed, proving that he has infernally dangerous puppy eyes. Nick’s heart is breaking just by looking at him. 

“Plaid. I can’t imagine my soulmate owning more than one plaid shirt.” 

“You don’t like plaid?” Sam asks. 

“No… except in schoolgirl skirts, and kilts.” Nick tilts his head and looks curiously at Sam. “Do you own a kilt?” 

Sam chuckles and shakes his head. “I’ll stop wearing plaid,” he says instead and sits up so he can kiss Nick. Nick wonders what the hell Sam will wear instead? His wardrobe seems to consist mostly of plaid from what Nick can discern. Sam tastes of toothpaste and it makes Nick self-conscious about his own breath, since it tastes like something has crawled up in his mouth and died. Sam doesn’t seem to give a shit, so Nick takes the opportunity to enjoy the morning kisses. 

“I need to be at work by noon,” Nick breaks the kiss to inform Sam. 

“I’ll drive you.” 

“Where’s my car?” 

“I don’t know. Did you drive to the bar?” 

“I probably did that, yes. Thanks for…” Nick falls quiet. He has no idea what he’s thanking Sam for. He’s never stupid enough to drive when drunk. His usual M.O. consists of crawling into the backseat and falling asleep. 

“Don’t mention it. It’s you and me now. I’ve got your back.” Sam’s smile is a beautiful, terrifying thing. It’s 9 AM and Nick’s still waiting for the onset of regretting his life’s choices. 

* * *

Nick leans back and listens to the other attorney questioning the expert witness. Sam’s been waiting for him outside of either his office or the court every day when he gets off work for the last week. Just lounging against his dirty pickup truck like a gorgeous, tempting lunacy. Nick never told him his work hours. How could he? They always vary. But Sam’s there anyway. The guy’s not dumb. He keeps track. That first day he even drove Nick home and invited himself in. Nick hadn’t told him where he lives. 

Yes, he’d been creeped out. But it was hard to hold onto that feeling when he was balls deep in Sam, closing his hands around the guy's throat in a mad impulse of self-defense, and Sam came all over himself. 

All Sam’s plaid shirts but one have disappeared. But the other day when Nick woke up Sam had been wearing a schoolgirl uniform with a plaid skirt. ‘Creeped out’ was not Nick’s reaction. 

“Do you recall the time that you examined the body?” 

“The autopsy started around 8:30 PM,” the witness answers. 

“And, Mr. Denton was dead at the time?” the attorney asks. Nick has the urge to facepalm. 

The witness gives the attorney a flat stare. “If not, he was by the time I finished.” 

Nick barely withholds a snigger. Sam will be waiting outside when he’s done here. Most likely he’ll be bringing a gift or have a surprise planned. He’s completely unpredictable. That first day when Nick found him waiting outside he’d been pissed at Sam. He’d spent the day trying to puzzle out what happened, asking himself questions like, ‘If I spent the evening fantasising about it, is it really rape just because I was unconscious?’ To which the answer is a roaring ‘YES!’ Sometime during the time Nick had gotten himself too drunk to even be self-aware, Sam had decided to take him home and fuck him raw. Nick doubts he was conscious for long, but judging by his wakeup and how thoroughly fucked his asshole had been, Sam must have had many hours of fun with it. That’s rape. So Nick had been pissed. He’d also been scared. Come on. A six foot four giant made of muscle decides you’re his soulmate, unable to see the wrong in fucking a stranger deep asleep? Standing outside your work when you exit? Of course Nick’s going to be scared! But he’s been in the game long enough to know that Sam’s kind of insanity isn’t the type you want to openly challenge. That type of insanity turns dangerous if you tell it ‘no’. So Nick got into the car like a pissbaby. He’d said ‘I’m still sore from you pounding me. But you haven’t let me put you in the same state.’ 

Sam answered ‘Do you want to fuck me?’ 

‘I want you to beg for it,’ Nick had said, voice cold and hard. 

And wonder of all wonders, Sam had. Fuck, he begged so prettily. Stopped the car on an abandoned lot, got out and dropped his pants, presenting himself for the taking right there up against the car. And then he’d begged for Nick to come inside of him, to fill him up, chanting for it. It’s funny how Nick totally forgot about condoms until then. Funny how he didn’t care when Sam was on his knees, licking him clean afterwards. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t freaked out as much as he should when Sam drove them to Nick’s place. 

Nick might be starting to fall in love. It’s 4 PM and Nick should _really_ be questioning his life choices. 

* * *

Sam reads a lot. He’s read every book Nick owns. Just flips through them, scanning each page briefly, and then he’s able to have in-depth discussions about them. Nick spends his lunch breaks buying new books. And to think Nick once used to be proud of getting through a 500-page book in a day. Pfft. His self-proclaimed soulmate is putting him to shame. When Nick works from home he doesn’t have to go to his bookshelf to look up the exact wording in a paragraph. Sam has a photographic memory. He can tell Nick. On the second week, Sam wrapped his arms around him when he was cooking them dinner, lips brushing the shell of Nick’s ear, and whispered ‘I love you’. It shouldn’t have been surprising, with the whole soulmate thing going on in Sam’s head. But it was. Nick wanted to scream in panic and shove Sam out of his house, telling him to stay away. Instead, he smiled and said it right back. He’s stupid like that. But, hey? What good is a hole if you can’t dig yourself down deeper? Nick likes to tell himself he was lying at the time. 

It’s been a month. Nick’s not sure if Sam’s even got his own place anymore. Nick mentioned he preferred to sleep in his house. They’ve never gone to Sam’s house since. All of Sam’s clothes are put away in Nick’s drawers and wardrobe. There are new photos on the wall. All of Sam and Sam’s brother Dean. Some new books, photo albums, and other trinkets spread around the house. Nick never made a key for Sam, but surprise surprise! Sam has one. Sam loves to talk. He talks about his brother a lot. Some of the stories he has to tell should remain untold but end with Nick begging for more descriptive details, jerking off while picturing them. That pleases Sam to no end, and he’ll paint vivid, sweat-soaked, forbidden images that started at a much earlier age than Michael and Nick’s tabooed romance. Well. Not on Dean’s part. Dean was 16 by the time Sam wore him down to defeat. Nick and Mikey are barely a year apart and both had been 16 when they’d said ‘to hell with it’ and given in. Sam’s hung up pictures he’s found of Mikey too. Pictures Nick’s kept hidden deep down in drawers or in a file in the back of the wardrobe. Privacy is something Nick can wave goodbye to, for as long as Sam decides to keep him. 

Because ending this psychotic daydream of a relationship isn’t an option. Nick’s read Sam’s rap sheet. He’s read all the psychiatric journals too. He asked Sam for them and Sam brought them to him like an obedient puppy. Nick read them and nodded along with Sam while he ranted about how wrong the shrinks all are. Internally Nick was checking off each conclusion the shrinks had drawn with a ‘Yup. That sounds about right.’ Sam scares the living shit out of Nick. But ending it isn’t an option. Because Sam’s hands are big and strong, his mouth a God-given gift, and his smile lights the sun each morning. 

Nick leans back in his chair to listen to the opposing attorney question the witness. 

“Can you describe the individual?” 

“He was about 20, medium height, and had a beard.” 

“Was this a male or a female?” 

“Unless the Circus was in town, I'm going with male,” the witness answers. 

Nick smirks. Sam had told him he had a surprise waiting for him when he gets home. It’s 10 AM and Nick shouldn’t be feeling so eager for his workday to end. 

* * *

“When are you coming to visit? It’s been more than a year since the last time. I miss you,” Mikey says. The bastard is shirtless. Skyping from his bedroom while Sarah’s at work. Reason enough to jump on a plane and fly over there. 

“You know you could just come here instead?” Nick deflects, a ball of longing in his gut. 

“It’s not that easy with a family, Luci, and you know it.” 

“Mmmh. How’s Sarah?” Nick asks with cold disgust on his face. 

Mikey gives him a chastising look. “Don’t be like that. You know I’ll always love you more.” 

Nick shifts in his desk chair. Of course, he _knows_. “And the baby?” 

Mikey rolls his eyes. “Will you stop calling him ‘the baby’? Jack is four years old and I know you love him like he was your own.” 

Nick scowls. “He _is_ my own! You know as well as I do that Sarah’s excuse of the condom breaking when you fucked was bullshit. I sent you the tape of me hate-banging her, with a close-up of the creampie to boot. Jack’s _our_ son, Mikey. We should be raising him. Not―” Nick cuts off his angry rant that’s only met with an affectionate smile anyway. He loves Jack. Jack couldn’t have a better father than Mikey. Certainly better than ‘Nick Nobody’. And raising him together with Mikey is a pipe dream he shouldn’t be having. Thinking of Jack as ‘the baby’ makes it easier not to pine. He waves it off. “It doesn’t matter. I just don’t get why you went ahead and married her when she cheated on you?” 

“Whatever lets me keep part of you with me,” Mikey says. Asshole. Nick aches inside. He has grudges. He blames father. 

“I found somebody,” he tells Mikey instead. 

“Really? Is it serious?” Mikey asks, eyebrows rising in surprise. 

“Like the _plague_ ,” Nick jokes with a smirk. Maybe it isn’t a joke. “We’re soulmates. I can’t leave him.” 

“That’s great! I’m happy you’re not alone anymore,” Mikey says with a big smile. He means it. Nick knows he does. It won’t stop them from slotting together like pieces of a puzzle whenever they end up meeting again, but somehow, Nick doesn’t think Sam will mind any more than Nick minded getting to watch Sam livestream parts of his visit to Dean last month. Dean’s one hot piece of ass. Especially in uniform. Dean’s also firmly under Sam’s spell. Getting introduced to your brother-in-law while he’s got his lips wrapped around your boyfriend’s dick is… well. Nick can think of worse introductions. Especially since Dean turned out to be a fun guy to talk to too. And seeing his boyfriend get pounded by an officer in the back of a police car will forever be one of Nick’s most treasured memories. It seems like Dean’s desperate for somebody to see them, who approves. Nick longs for the day he can return the favour. “How did you meet?” Mikey asks. 

Nick chuckles. “About three months ago I was at a bar drinking myself unconscious. I woke up naked in a strange house, getting fucked by him. He proclaimed that we were soulmates.” 

Mikey makes a yikes-expression. “Um… that doesn’t sound so good, Luci baby. Maybe you should think twice about being in a relationship with him…” 

Nick grins. “I literally _can’t_ leave him. Look.” He takes the laptop and carries it to the window, then angles the camera so Mikey can see the street below. “See the sizzling hot guy by the pickup truck? That’s him. His stalking abilities are downright fearsome. I’ve never told him where I lived or given him my number. Didn’t stop him from calling or giving me a lift home. He got himself a key to my apartment God knows how, and moved in within two weeks. He’s got a rap sheet a mile long and his dossiers from the closed psych ward and other shrinks are thick as bricks. But you want to know a secret?” Nick goes back to his desk and sits down so he can look at Mikey again. 

“What?” 

Nick leans forward and grins. “I haven’t been as happy as I am now for over a decade. It’s insane. _He’s_ insane. I get that. I know that! He’s insanely jealous of everybody who isn’t you. He’s unpredictable and delusional. He has visions that turn out to be true. Visions of horrible crimes and he has them from the perpetrator’s point of view. The only reason I know he’s not the one who commits those crimes is because he’s with me almost all the time, won’t let me out of his sight for too long. I should be filing a restraining order. But. I’m head over heels for him. I honest to God love the ever-living shit out of him. And I don’t know how he does it, but he makes me feel like I’m Lucifer Shurley again, not Nick Nobody. I’m tired of pretending to myself that I’m with him only because I’m afraid he’ll kill me if I try to leave. I think I never was. I think I might have fallen for him at first sight, but known the lunacy in it and tried to pretend to myself I wasn’t as deranged as he is.” Nick chuckles in embarrassment and rubs a hand against his neck. “There. End rant.” 

Mikey makes a baffled noise that might have been a cut-off laugh. He wears a bemused smile, eyes big and astounded. “He’s… he’s jealous of everybody but me?” 

Of course, that’s what Mikey would get hung up on. “Yes. Turns out I had let slip the truth of you and me that first evening. Maybe that’s what the whole soulmates thing comes from. But he’s decided that he loves you like he loves his own brother, solely because I love you like he loves his own brother,” Nick explains and raises a meaningful eyebrow. 

“You mean…?” 

“Mmmhm.” 

“And he doesn’t mind us…?” 

“Nope. He thinks I should go visit you more often. He wants me to livestream like he livestreamed his visit to his brother.” 

Mikey throws his head back laughing in delight. When he looks back he leans forward and pins Nick with a next to manic gaze. “He’s a keeper. I don’t care if he’s mad or what he does. If he lets me love you like I want to love you, even if it’s just once or twice a year, and if he makes you happy, I’d say _ride that crazy train_. No joke, Luci.” 

It’s Nick’s turn to laugh. Somehow, he hadn’t expected anything else from his big brother, though he really should have. “That’s funny coming from the most successful prosecutor in your state. Isn’t it your job to put away nutjobs like my Sam, rather than telling your little bro to date them?” 

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.” Mikey drags a hand over his face. “You know, up until father separated us, I believed in what I was doing. But this last decade? I think I’ve lost every shred of idealism I had. I fucking live for Jack these days. That, the moments in the spotlight, and making money.” 

Nick hums with a smile. “My idealism has been dead a long time. Welcome to the club.” A horn honking on the street below catches his attention. “Whelp. That’s my cue. My boy’s getting impatient. I just wanted to call to tell you I’ll come home for Christmas this year, so I’ll be seeing you in a few months.” 

Mikey grins. “Can’t wait. Love you!” 

“Love you too!” 

Nick hangs up with thrilled butterflies in his belly and wanders over to the window. He digs his phone out of his pocket and calls Sam while he looks down at the street below. Sam’s looking up at his window with an impatient frown, and Nick can see him answer his phone and lifting it to his ear. Nick speaks before Sam has a chance to say anything. “You know what just occurred to me, sweetheart?” 

“What?” 

“The desk in my office is quite sturdy…” 

A devilish smile spreads across Sam’s face. “On my way,” he says before hanging up and crossing the street. 

* * *

Six months into their relationship Nick thinks things can’t get any more insane than they already are. Nick’s learned to handle Sam’s ‘quirks’ pretty well. Sam is impulsive and temperamental. He had to be housebroken like the overgrown puppy he is. He’s a natural slob. Nick prefers it neat at home. Sure, he can deal with a little mess, but not the wreck that Sam piles up around himself if left to his own devices. Sam drops his dirty clothes on the floor. Nick counters by only washing clothes in the dirty laundry basket. Sam ends up having nothing clean to wear and has a fit of rage, calling Nick a selfish asshole and all kinds of things you shouldn’t say to your self-proclaimed soulmate. Nick remains calm, innocently answering that he doesn’t know what Sam’s talking about since Nick washes everything in the laundry basket. He’s scared shitless under his calm, but instead of getting violent Sam rage-launders. Because, apparently, that’s a thing. After that Sam’s clothes always end up in the laundry basket except for clothes of Sam’s that Nick’s worn. Sam will fish them _out_ of the basket and wear them until they no longer smell of Nick. 

Nick doesn’t mind doing most house chores because Sam’s only moderately good at them. 

Take cooking for an instance. Sam’s a ‘call takeout’ kind of guy. He can cook, in the manner of he doesn’t burn things or serve raw chicken, but it doesn’t taste well. He has a thing for bringing home weird stuff he finds in the store. Zebra steak and stuff like that. If it’s odd, he’ll bring it home. But enough times of Sam cooking it and Nick spitting it out and suggesting pizza instead (plus suffering a night of guilt because fuck those puppy eyes), Sam changed his behaviour by coming home with his weird stuff and dumping it on Nick instead, wanting him to cook it. As a result, Nick has successfully made good meals out of frog legs, snake, alligator, zebra, ostrich, kangaroo, and a list of other things. Sam always shines like a sun after that. 

Nick has limits, though. Like that time Sam came home with a freshly killed raccoon. You could _see_ the tire-track over its head. No matter how many ‘But, Nick! It’s fresh!’ Nick still went ‘Nope’ in every way possible. He ended up throwing both Sam and the raccoon out the door, grabbing Sam’s plaid shirt and throwing that out too, yelling ‘Stay there until you figured out what you did wrong!’ 

That led to the most angsty hours of Nick’s life. He was expecting Sam to come thundering back in (he didn’t actually lock the door) in a rage fit, doing who knows what. But Sam didn't. Instead, he came back in three hours later with his tail between his legs, an apology, and two pizza boxes. 

Sam makes a mess and rarely cleans. Nick grew tired of cleaning up after him. Instead, when it got too messy Nick turned in the door and went straight to a hotel. When Sam tried to get him to come home, Nick calmly told him that he can’t live in a pigsty and doesn’t want to spend all his free time cleaning up after Sam. From thereon Nick would live in hotels _alone_ until Sam had cleaned up his own bloody mess, and would repeat the process if Sam couldn’t keep after himself. (The solution was easier than telling Sam to move out.) The next morning Sam sent him a picture of their house scrubbed meticulously clean from top to bottom. Nick called in sick to go home and let himself be fucked senseless. After that Sam keeps things tidy enough for Nick to feel at home. 

Nick learns that the best way to deal with his own temper when it comes to Sam, is to keep close but act distant. Preferably acting as impulsively as Sam would have. Like the time they go out to the bar where they met. Nick’s pissed the hell off at Sam for something he can’t remember. He ignores Sam and keeps watching the TV. On impulse, he reaches out, opens Sam’s zipper, pulls out his dick and jerks him off for anyone to see. Sam doesn’t stop him. Neither does anyone else. Afterwards Nick’s heady from the power trip of having put Sam in such humiliating position, and Sam’s deliriously happy because apparently he’s had a vision about that, that he hadn’t been sure if it was a vision or daydream. ‘That might mean all the others were visions too!’ Sam exclaims joyfully. Which is not ominous at all… 

The sex is fantastic no matter what mood either of them is in. It ranges from slow, sweet lovemaking to role-playing, to rough and violent, to humiliating and domineering, to playful and funny. No matter how they do it, it always seems to be the right way for that particular time. Sam cheats sometimes but Nick doesn’t give a shit. Jealousy is born out of fear of losing someone. He couldn’t get rid of Sam if he tried. Sam’s the jealous one. Sometimes Nick is tempted to cheat just to see what would happen. It appears that Sam’s placed Nick into the same category as Dean, which means he can do no wrong and everyone _but_ he is to blame. Cheating would put that to the ultimate test. Nick wants to fuck that bitch down at the post office who always comes onto him but gives him crappy service every time he turns her down. He imagines _her_ ending up at the wrong side of Sam’s ire and _that_ makes him pop a boner. He hasn’t dared. Yet. But he has grudges, so sue him. 

6 months of pure rollercoaster and Nick isn’t questioning his life’s choices, but questioning if he should maybe make some bolder ones. It’s not like things could get more insane than it is… 

“Nick…?” 

“Mhm?” They’re lying naked and sweaty, Sam on top of him, softening dick still inside of him, smushing his belly and chest into the mattress with his weight. It’s a good weight. 

“It’s 11:06 PM. This is officially the exact time for when we first had sex, six months ago. In this exact position.” 

Nick closes his eyes and grins. “I wouldn’t know. I’m pretty sure I was deeply asleep by then.” 

Sam chuckles. “It’s okay. I didn’t mind doing all the work,” he says warmly and kisses Nick’s neck. 

It’s a good thing Nick has impulse control. Somehow he suspects hysterical laughter wouldn’t go down well. “Lucky me.” 

“Yeah, and um… I’ve been thinking of what you said that first time we met. And, I’ve been wanting to do something for you. Something big. To show my gratitude for having found you. And, and. Um. So I have. I’ve started doing it. But, um, I wonder… how many do you need?” 

“Sammy, darling. Light of my life,” Nick drones, warm, fuzzy and comfortable save from the wet spot of his own come he’s lying on. “How many times do I have to remind you that I don’t _remember_ our first conversation? You’ll have to remind me, sweetheart. What did I say?” 

“You said you wanted to defend famous murderers so you could get money and fame. You said all you needed was one high profile case, a serial killer, to start you off.” 

Nick’s heart jumps into overdrive. He’s hot and cold all at once. Just when he thought things couldn’t get any crazier. Sam couldn’t have meant what he just implied! But yes, yes he could. Nick should make a run for it. Go into hiding. Call the police and have them lock Sam up forever. 

He twists around under Sam, dislodging Sam’s dick but needing to see his face and look him in the eye. Sam’s looking at him with an open and adoring, but nervous expression, waiting with baited breath for his answers. Nick needs to be really careful with his answer. Tell him gently but firmly that he’s grateful for the thought but he didn’t mean it and he’s got all he needs as long as he has Sam. That _if_ Sam had started doing ‘it’, he has to stop. That it was just drunken, bitter ramblings because Nick’s full of hate and bitterness. But Nick loves him anyway. Nick cups Sam’s cheeks gently, strokes his soft hair out of his face. “Sam, sweetheart…” Nick kisses him chastely, looks him deeply in the eyes and… “Can you go double digits?” 

It’s 11:08 PM. Sam’s smile is radiant. Nick’s heart pounds like a bass drum in his chest. His dick’s hard again, poking at Sam’s thigh. Nick’s just asked Sam to up his presumed body count. Nick should be questioning his life’s choices. 

But Sam’s his soulmate, and Nick’s got grudges… 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Phew! You made it this far, huh? Okay so now I've dragged our precious Sam Winchester through the mud and I was wondering what you thought about it? This whole story, I mean. Not just insane Sam. Thanks for reading and please, please, please, leave a comment. Love you guys! :*


End file.
